


A Short Elf and a Tall Dwarf

by kitkatkaylie



Series: Jonmund Week 2020 [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Lord of the Rings, Fluff, Jonmund Week 2020, Light Angst, M/M, dwarf!Tormund, elf!Jon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:07:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23314381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitkatkaylie/pseuds/kitkatkaylie
Summary: Elves and Dwarves did not get on, everyone in Middle Earth knew that. Yet when a quest to save of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth is undertaken, friendship and something stronger builds between Jon of Mirkwood and Tormund of Erebor.Written for Day 3 of Jonmund Week 2020: Alternate Universe
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Tormund Giantsbane/Jon Snow
Series: Jonmund Week 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1673965
Comments: 3
Kudos: 27





	A Short Elf and a Tall Dwarf

“You have been summoned here to answer the threat of Mordor. We stand on the brink of destruction, none of us can escape it. Bring forth the Ring, Bran.”

The halfling that had arrived in Rivendell unconscious on the back of Arya’s horse stood and slowly walked to the centre of the room, where he placed a small gold ring on the plinth.

“So it is true.” The golden-haired man from Gondor said in a reverent tone.

The man began to lean forwards, as though entranced by the sight of the ring, as though he desired nothing more than to touch it.

“Jaime!” Lady Catelyn barked, with something almost akin to fear in her voice.

 _“Ash naza durbatuluk, ash naza gimbatul, ash naze thrakatuluk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.”_ Davos chanted rhythmically, and a pain bean to fill Jon’s head, as though all the evils of the world had decided to dance a jig in his skull.

Lady Catelyn glared at Davos, “Never before has the Black Speech been uttered in my halls.”

Davos leaned back in his seat, “I do not ask your pardon, Lady Catelyn, for the Black Speech may yet be heard in all corners of this land.”

The man leaned forwards eagerly, “Nay, it is a gift. A gift to the foes of Mordor, why not use the ring?” He stood and began to circle the plinth almost predatorily, “Long has my sister, the Steward of Gondor, kept the forces of Mordor at bay by the blood of our people are your lands made safe. Give Gondor the weapon of the enemy, let us use it against him.”

Gendry scoffed, “You cannot use it. None of us can. The One Ring answers to the Night Kings alone, it has no other master.”

“And what would a ranger know of this matter?”

Jon found he could stomach the disrespect of the man no longer; did he not realise who he was speaking to? Did he not realise what an honour it was to be granted a seat on the council of the Lady of Rivendell?

“This is no mere ranger; he is Gendry son of the Baratheons. You owe him your allegiance.”

The Gondorian looked at Gendry with shock, perhaps taking in his scruffy appearance and hands calloused not just with those formed from weaponry but also hard work.

“Gendry! This, this is Robert’s heir?”

Jon was not ashamed to feel a vindictive sort of pleasure as he spat out the next words, “And heir to the throne of Gondor.”

Gendry held up a calming hand to him, “Sit down Jon.”

Jaime scoffed and looked at Gendry with disdain, “Gondor has no king. Gondor needs no king.”

Davos sighed heavily, drawing all attention back to the matter at hand, “Gendry is right, we cannot use it.”

“There is only one choice.” The Lady Catelyn intoned solemnly, “The ring must be destroyed.”

Jon’s eyes flitted around the council, briefly catching the eye of his cousins. He refused to let his gaze linger on the dwarves, for it had been bad enough that they had been invited.

“What are we waiting for?” One of the dwarves’ grumbled, and Jon inwardly rolled his eyes at them, it was so very like a dwarf to be impatient, and impatience never ended well.

The red haired dwarf hefted his axe and rushed at the ring, and was flung back from it as soon as his blade touched the stone. It was an amusing sight, if Jon was being honest.

“The ring cannot be destroyed, Tormund Giantsbane, by any craft we here possess.” Lady Catelyn said with an unchanging expression, despite the shards of metal that littered her floor, “It was made in the fires of Mount Doom, only there can it be unmade. It must be taken into Mordor and cast back into the fire from whence it came.”

A hush fell upon them all at the thought of the black mountains of Mordor, of the ash choked sky, and the ever burning fires at its heart.

The man from Gondor, the White Tree upon his chest and sword by his side even in the peaceful meeting, scoffed and pushed his golden curls back.

“One does not simply walk into Mordor, it’s Black Gates are guarded by more than orcs, there is an evil there that does not sleep and the Great Eye is ever watching.” He leaves forwards and his voice softened as though he was telling a bedtime story to a child, “It is a barren wasteland riddled with fire and ash and dust, the very air you breathe is poison. Not with ten thousand men could you do this, it is folly.”

Something in Jon’s chest snapped at those words, how dare this man tell them what they could and could not do? His people had been fighting the evils of Mordor, Jon had been fighting the evils of Mordor, before this man’s father was a twinkle in his grandfather’s eye. He shot to his feet, suddenly furious.

“Have you heard nothing Lady Catelyn has just said? The ring must be destroyed!”

The dwarf, obviously recovered from his fall stood as well and jabbed a finger at Jon’s chest.

“And I suppose you think you’re the one to do it!”

The fury swelled even greater so that it was all but ringing in his ears, so much so that he nearly did not hear the next disrespect to fall from the Gondorian’s mouth.

“And if we fail? What then?” The man scoffed, “What happens when the Night Kings takes back what it his?”

And before there was even the chance to respond to such disrespect, it got worse.

“I will be dead before I see the Ring in the hands of an elf!” The dwarf bellowed.

Chaos broke out as Robb, Sansa and Arya leapt to Jon’s defence, while the other dwarves leapt to Tormund’s. Even Davos joined in, although whether it was an attempt to calm them or just because he wanted a good argument was unclear.

“I will take it.” Bran called out in a small yet strong voice, “I will take the ring to Mordor.”

His voice cut through the arguing and bickering of the Council like a winter’s wind through a crack.

Man, dwarf, elf, and wizard, all turned to look at him, to look at the hobbit who dared to speak up and make such a grievous offer.

“I will take it.” The hobbit repeated, and Jon thought he could detect a quiver in his voice, “Although I do not know the way.”

Davos placed a hand on the shoulder of the halfling, “I will help you bear this burden, Bran Stark, as long as it is yours to bear.”

A sense of shame overtook them all, and Jon could hardly believe what he was seeing.

“If by my life or death, I can protect you, I will.” Gendry knelt before Bran, “You have my sword.”

Jon’s decision was ruled by a number of reasons, but amongst them was the knowledge that Arya would kill him if any harm came to Gendry because she had been forbidden from the Council meeting.

“And you have my bow.”

The dwarf glared at him and shouldered his way forwards, “And my axe.”

Jon hardly heard the rest of the conversation, hardly noticed as others signed up for the foolhardy quest. He was far too annoyed by the fact he had apparently signed up for months of travel with a dwarf of all people. Arya had better appreciate what he did for her crush.

* * *

“I though dwarves were supposed to be short?”

Tormund startled as the smallest of the halflings popped up next to him and looked at him with big, curious eyes.

“Well I thought elves were supposed to be tall, but it seems there are exceptions to every rule.” He answered Rickon with a grin at the glare the elf pointed his way.

“You still haven’t answered my question.” The hobbit pointed out with an expression that reminded Tormund of the tales the Company of Mance Oakenshield and the hobbit that had accompanied them.

He suspected that this hobbit was a relation of Benjen who had accompanied Mance, if only because his pout seemed very similar to the one his father had described.

“I, my little friend, am an abnormally tall dwarf. It is the Durin blood in me, or so I am told, although some have blamed the dragon that lived in my home and the magic it must have left behind.”

The elf scoffed and drew Rickon’s attention as he stood, but Tormund ignored him. Let the elf scoff at him and his height, Tormund did not care, besides, the elf was uncommonly short anyway and the two of them were almost of a height.

Later on, when the hobbits had finished learning the basics of fighting with Jaime, Tormund would overhear Meera remarking to Bran how she had always wanted to see the elves, but that she did not recall Benjen’s stories ever featuring one so short, and he would let out a chuckle to himself at the tables turning under the scrutiny and questioning nature of the halflings.

* * *

Moria was a dank pit that smelled of death, decay and brimstone.

Jon could tell that once it had been beautiful in its own way, that when it was new built and the halls filled with dwarves instead of ghosts it would have been a sight to behold indeed. But like so many of the great halls it had fallen to wrack and ruin and hubris.

They were all on edge, the shadows seemed to move before their very eyes, and the sound of water dripping and things scurrying in the dark. It was a relief to enter the great hall, and then again, a room containing a single shaft of day light.

Or at least, until they realised that the light illuminated a tomb and skeletons surrounding it. Only Davos was of sound presence enough to approach the tomb and read from its dusty inscription.

“Here lies Sigorn son of Thenn, Lord of Moria” Davos said, “It is as I feared.”

Tormund let out a great wail, filled with a sorrow the likes of which Jon had not heard in all the centuries of his life.

Davos seemingly ignored the grief-stricken dwarf and instead moved to pull a dusty book from the arms of a skeleton. He opened it to the last few pages and began to read out the runes in a deep voice.

“They have taken the bridge, and the second hall. We have barred the gates, but cannot hold them for long. The ground shakes, drums, drums in the deep. We cannot get out; the shadow moves in the dark. We cannot get out. They are coming.”

They all jumped as a terrible clang rang out through the hall, echoing on the stones. Jon turned to the source and was greeted with a wincing Rickon as an entire skeleton bounced its way down a well and into the depths of the mines.

“Fool of a Stark. Throw yourself in next time and rid us of your stupidity!” Davos snapped, a sign more than anything that he was affected by the aura of the tomb.

Jon could not help the pity he felt for the dwarf, for Tormund. It was an unkind way to find out about the demise of a beloved uncle, and yet he also found himself strangely admiring the way the dwarf picked himself up and was ready to avenge his kin.

It was a strange feeling; he had never found any action of a dwarf to be worthy of admiration before.

But it was not a feeling he could bask in for too long as goblins and orcs started to march on the chamber they were in. They quickly barricaded the doors and prepared to stand against the oncoming hordes, at least long enough for an opening to escape to become visible.

Jon lost himself in the heat of battle, barely paying attention to the others as he cut down goblin after goblin with bow and knives in turn.

Eventually the goblins retreated enough that they could escape into the great hall, but soon enough their footsteps echoing on the cold stones of the floor called forth yet more legions of the foul creatures.

They were surrounded, the hobbits pushed into the centre of their circle, Jaime to one side of Jon, Tormund the other, death seemed imminent for no matter how well they fought nine could not stand against all the orcs and goblins of Moria.

And then, a deep pounding filled the halls, the crackle of flames rung through the air, and a red glow appeared. The goblins and orcs scattered, fearful of whatever new horror had appeared.

It did not take long for the new threat to become identifiable, no other creature let out such a sense of impending doom, not even a dragon.

“A Balrog!” Jon cried out; horror infused in every part of his being at the creature of legend.

No soon had he called out had Davos urged them all to run, leading them through corridors and halls in an attempt to escape the balrog. After what felt like too long, but likely had not been very many minutes at all, they came to a great chasm, a singular bridge crossing its depths and daylight on its other side.

They had almost reached the exit, almost reached safety, but first they had to cross the crumbling bridge.

Jon went first, his light feet and impeccable balance long honed by walking along tree boughs, and he leapt across the breakage in the bridge to better hep the others. They looked concerned about doing so, but had no choice, especially as part of the entrance collapsed as the balrog neared.

Davos was first to jump, and Jon steadied him with ease, then Jaime with Rickon and Osha tucked beneath his arms.

The ledge crumbled even more as the man leapt, leaving the others trapped. Gendry exchanged a glance with Jaime and something must have passed between them, for without any fanfare he tossed Meera at the other man.

But even when faced with death Tormund held onto his pride, and refused the help of Gendry, he leapt across the gap under his own power and very nearly did not make it. Jon had needed to grab hold of the dwarf’s, thick and soft, beard to prevent him from falling into the abyss; and received not a word of thanks for his rescue. No, instead he merely a grumble about his method of choice.

The leap of Gendry and Bran was fraught with even more peril, enough that Jon started to compose in his head the letter he would have to send to Arya about her beau’s death. He was pretty sure she wouldn’t blame him if Gendry fell while escaping from a balrog.

They made it over however, and none too soon as the balrog made its way into the chamber, close enough its wings and horns were visible. The fellowship raced across the bridge, and Jon knew that he at least was sending prayers to the Valar that they would make it, that they would not fail so early on in their quest.

Davos stopped towards the end of the bridge, letting them all pass him before raising his arms as he did before performing some great magic.

“You cannot pass.” Davos stood firm, “I am a servant of the Secret Fire, a wielder of the flame of Anor. You cannot pass. The dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udûn. Go back to the Shadow! You cannot pass.”

The balrog stood so still it appeared to be mocking Davos, the darkness swirled around it and the fires seemed to dim for a moment, before it surged forwards with its wings extended and its great blade raised.

Davos stood before it, a single point of light against the black and red of the creature. He appeared tiny before its great mass, and yet the sense that he was holding it back was too great to not be truth.

“You cannot pass!” Davos called out once more, his voice silencing even the great rumble of the balrog’s flames. He raised his sword and staff and slammed them down on the bridge, cracking it in two and plunging the beast into the depths of the abyss.

For a moment they thought they had succeeded, that they had faced a creature so terrible to slay one would be to be rewarded by the Valar themselves,

“Fly you fools.” Davos cried, and then he was gone.

* * *

Tormund could admit to himself, and out loud that Lothlorien was beautiful.

It did not fit the descriptions he had been given by family, of evil trees containing a witch who would ensnare the mind as easily as breathing.

The Lady Margaery was beautiful, and her power incredible to behold, but she was no witch as the stories told. No, she could not be, not when she spoke to Tormund in his own language with an accent as old as the trees, and accent that told him her knowledge was honestly earned.

The lament the elves sang for Davos filled the air with a haunting beauty, echoing off the golden leaves as though the very forest itself was mourning. Jon had not scoffed at him when he had asked for a translation, had merely explained it in a stunned tone, as though he was in shock.

Tormund found himself wondering if it was the first death that the elf had been privy to, if the long lived being had never lost someone before, whether he truly understood what it meant for Davos to be gone. It was strange to think of a being of many centuries as naïve of the ways of the world, and yet it could not be denied that Jon was naïve in many ways, sheltered as he had been in his forest.

He found himself offering the elf comfort as they walked beneath the trees, talking of the traditions of mourning of his people, while Jon himself explained some of the strange ways of the elves.

Tormund would still hesitate perhaps, to call Jon a friend. But it could not be denied that their time beneath the trees of Lothlorien had brough them closer together.

* * *

They were too late.

It was something that became apparent as soon as Jaime blew his horn, for if he was in danger enough to signal his position then they were likely already overrun.

Jon rushed to the position the horn called him to, Tormund fast on his heels, but they were too late.

They arrived just in time to see a third arrow sink into Jaime’s chest, just as he fell, surrounded by the corpses of Uruk-hai. Gendry cradled him in his arms, for the two had built a bond of sorts over the lands of Gondor and their shared humanity; all the while Jon and Tormund continued to fight off the remaining Uruk-hai in an attempt to allow Jaime to die with some peace.

They knew when he had breathed his last, for Gendry stood with renewed determination, something akin to a cold rage on his features as he took down the last few foes without hesitation.

And when the Uruk-hai were defeated, when Bran and Meera had vanished and Gendry had told them how Rickon and Osha had been taken, they laid Jaime to rest in one of their boats, surrounded by his shield and sword and horn, as befitted a Lord of Gondor. His bracers Gendry took for himself, for they were inlaid with the White Tree of Gondor, and Jon knew that the reluctant king had made up his mind, he would be reluctant no more.

But first they had lost hobbits to find.


End file.
